[See Note K, Addenda.]

“IS CATS TO BE TRUSTED?”

“Is cats to be trusted?” was to have been the title of an essay from the pen of poor Artemus Ward. “Is cats to be trusted?” my starling has been taught to repeat, and often does so while running round the cat on the floor, examining her tail, opening up her paws with his beak, and occasionally making determined attempts to open up her nose also, and peep down her throat. As far as she is concerned, the bird is I think perfectly safe; for although she often pats him with her gloved hand when he gets too insinuating, she never otherwise attempts to molest him. I fear in his essay Artemus meant to have had a few jokes at pussy’s expense. My aim is a more serious one. A question like this, which to pussy is a most momentous one, affecting not only her comfort and happiness, but her standing as a social pet and her very existence itself, cannot be treated lightly in a work like the present. My own opinion is, and always has been, that if cats are properly fed and cared for, they will do anything rather than steal. But not content with giving my own experience, which some might say was exceptional, I have placed pussy in court, as it were, and given her a long, fair, and impartial trial, summoning evidence pro and con from every part of Great Britain and Ireland. The trial has lasted for months, and the Tichborne Case, as a Yankee would say, isn’t a circumstance to it in regard to the number of witnesses examined. The judgment has been overwhelmingly in pussy’s favour, and the verdict of the jury as follows:—

“Cats are not as a rule thieves, but quite the reverse.”

In every case investigated, where the theft was proved, it turned out that the cat was either starved, or illtreated, or spoiled. Moreover, the witnesses for the prosecution—in the minority—were, to use a homely phrase, a foggy lot, rude and illiterate, people with no definite ideas about their “h’s,” whose capitals were sown broadcast, who wrote “i Know,” and spelt cat with a “k”; while those for the defence were in every way the reverse, both socially and orthographically; people with crests and monograms, who wrote on one side of the paper only, and all letters prepaid.

So Miss Puss I think may stand down: she leaves the court without a stain upon her character.

Now, while boldly asserting that cats are as a rule honest, I do not mean to say that all are so. There are rogues among cats as well as among men; but just as we find that the law often makes men thieves, so likewise will cats become thieves if badly treated. What can be more disgraceful than the habit that some people have of systematically starving their cats, under the mistaken notion that they will thus become better mousers; or the custom of many of putting their cats out all night, no matter how wet or cold the night should be. Such treatment of pussy is greatly to be condemned, and only tends to foster habits of uncleanliness, of thieving, and of prowling. By regular feeding, good housing, occasional judicious correction—when puss is found tripping—and kindness, you may make almost any cat honest.

Pussy does not soon forget having been corrected for a fault.

Black Tom, mentioned in a former chapter, never went back to Dan’s hen-house again.

A Tom-cat, called Bruce, lived some years ago, at a farm-house near Dundee. This cat—honest in every other way—could never resist the temptation to steal the cream. All efforts to cure him of this habit were resorted to in vain. But one day, Bruce, much to his own satisfaction found himself shut up in the milk-house. When all was quiet, Bruce came from his corner and had a look round. What a grand and imposing array of basins of milk and tubs-full of cream! One of the latter stood on a table beneath the window, the edge of the tub being on a level with the sill. It was the largest tub in the room; and blessing his luck, up jumped Bruce and began to lick. It was so delicious, and Bruce closed his eyes to get the full flavour of it. Just then, however, some noise outside startled him,—he knew he was sinning, and was consequently nervous,—and in turning round, he missed his feet, and fell heels over head into the tub. Although half-choked, so soon as he came up, Bruce struck out boldly for the shore, but the sides of the vessel were too slippery even for a cat to hold on to; besides, the weight of the cream clogged his movements. He would fain not have screamed, but death stared him in the face, and the idea of dying in a tub of milk, as he had seen mice die, was awful; so he opened his mouth and gave vent to a smothered yell. That yell, loud-resounding through the house, brought “ben” the good-wife, and Bruce’s life was saved at the expense of about three pints of cream; but never more did that cat go near the milk-house. He was a reformed cat from that day; a burning and a shining light to all the cats in the country-side.

I know a cat—a Tom, as usual—who always sits on his master’s counter, surrounded by provisions of all sorts, but he was never known to steal. This cat has a penchant for pickled herrings; and although he might easily help himself by day or night, he always prefers asking his master for one. This he accomplishes in the usual cat fashion, by running towards the barrel and mewing up in his master’s face; and of course this appeal is never made in vain.

Cats are remarkably fond of fish. The other day, a bonnie fishwife was standing on the pavement with her creel on her back. Suddenly she was heard to scream aloud. “For the love o’ the Lord, sir,” she cried to a bystander, “tell me what’s that on my back.” The party addressed looked about, just in time to see a pussy disappearing round a corner, with a large fish in its mouth. That was what the newspapers would call an impudent theft, and it was certainly a clever one.

If not properly trained and cared for, pussy comes—like the Ladrone islanders—to look upon stealing as a virtue; and no wonder, for she must think it hard to starve in the midst of plenty, and in her master’s house. Besides, there is always two ways of viewing a matter. Out on the coast of Africa, I have often gone on shore—for the fun of the thing—with a party of other officers, to assist in replenishing our larder by the addition of a few fat fowls, a sucking grunter, or a kid of the goats. I rather think we stole them; but we called these little trips, “cutting-out expeditions;” still we swore “’pon honour,” and wore our swords none the less clankingly on a Sunday morning; nor would it have been safe for any one to have hinted that we were dishonest.

Just so with poor pussy. She is often tempted by hunger to make a little reprisal. It is vulgar to accuse her of stealing the steak, nailing a fish, or boning a cold chicken, “cutting-out,” is the proper term. It is a feline virtue, from the path of which she must be seduced in early kitten-hood, and by good treatment. But poor pussy is often made the scape-goat for the sins of others.

“Mary, bring up those cold pigeons.”

“O ma’am! how ever shall I tell you? That thief of a cat—”“The cat must be drowned,” says her mistress.

“Oh, no, ma’am! Poor thing! no, ma’am.”

It wouldn’t exactly suit Mary’s book to have pussy drowned. It would seriously interfere with those nice little suppers, she is in the habit of having with Matilda Jane.

“Sarah, we’ll have the remains of that cold lamb for supper.”

“Oh! dear me, ma’am; I forgot to tell you, the cat has eaten every bit of it. Can open the pantry-door, just like you or I, ma’am.”

I should think it could; the cat in this case being an enormous blue Tom tabby, with a stripe round one forearm, and a belt about his waist, and X 99 on the collar of his coat.

The following is the story of a real feline Jack Sheppard, I have no excuse to offer for this cat; I can only say that if he was a thief, he was a swell at it.

In a sweet little village not far from the famous old town of bonnie Dundee, lived, and I believe still lives, Peter McFarlane, a shoemaker, and his wife Tibbie; two as decent old bodies as you would see in all broad Scotland. They were honest and industrious, and, as a rule, agreed, or as the folks say, they both “said one way,” except when Peter took a dram, when, it must be confessed, the ashes did at times find their way up the chimney along with the smoke. They had no family but one,—a cat. A fine gentlemanly fellow he was too; dressed in the blackest of fur, and faultless to a degree, barring that he was the biggest thief ever known in the village, or whole country-side. Every one complained of Tom; and, as he got older, his delinquencies were ever on the increase. Allowing thieving to be a virtue among cats of his class, Tom was a saint, and ripe for glory long ago. The butcher, do what he liked, could not save his kidneys,—it was remarkable that Tom never touched the sausages,—he was always content with kidneys, although if none were to be had, to pussy’s honour be it said, he did not despise a lump of steak or even a nice lamb chop. Tom was a regular customer at the fish-monger’s; his weakness here being for Loch Fyne herrings,—they were handy; but he delighted also in the centre cut of a salmon, and in half-pound sea-trout. It has even been said, that Tom did not share his custom equally among the shop-keepers, spending too much of his time at the fish-monger’s counter; but, as his biographer, I must defend his name from any such allegation. Although it must be admitted he never paid ready-money, still he was never too proud to carry away his purchase. Tom used to enter the poor people’s houses about dinner-time, watch his chance, and purloin the meat from under their very noses. Once he lifted the lid from a broth-pot, and decamped with the boiling chicken. This cat was never known to drink water when he could find a milk-pan; nor milk, either, if the cream-jug was at all handy. He was even accused of having sucked the cows; and when hard pressed with hunger, he did not despise a piece of cheese or a tallow candle from the grocer’s round the corner. He never troubled himself catching mice,—chickens came handier; and tame pigeons he found were more satisfying than sparrows. Tom could break in or out of any place, climb anything, and jump—the neighbours all said—“the d——l’s height;” I don’t know how tall that gentleman is at Dundee, but he must be over twenty feet, for Tom could do that easily, and alight on his pumps. At long-last the cat became so notorious, and the outcry against him so loud and universal, that the shoemaker and Tibbie, yielding to the entreaties of the villagers, resolved to have him drowned.

On a cold winter’s night, then, honest Peter and three of the neighbours might have been seen—had there been light enough to see them—trudging along towards the pier, with the unhappy but virtuous Tom in a sack. Arrived at the place of execution, a consultation was held as to how the job should be done. There wasn’t a stone to be had, and Peter said he wasn’t going to lose his sack; it was bad enough to lose the cat; so it was resolved to take Tom out and swing him clear off into the water. More easily said than done. Tom was no sooner out of the bag, than by a successful application of tooth and nail, he wriggled himself free, and in a moment more was lost in the darkness. Peter scratched his head, the neighbours scratched their three heads, and they all felt funny and foolish. They determined however not to make laughing-stocks of themselves, so they returned to Peter’s house with the joyful intelligence, that Tom was a cat of the past.

Here were the fishwife and the milkwife, and the grocer and his wife, and the butcher—who hadn’t a wife, all assembled to hear the good news; and it was unanimously resolved to celebrate the event by making a night of it; and, although the people of Dundee and round-about are generally glad of any excuse to make a night of it, still it must be admitted that the present occasion urgently called for “cakes and whuskey.” So the fishwife brought salmon, the milkwife brought milk, the butcher brought steak, and the grocer whiskey galore; Tibbie with her best new mutch did the cooking, and they all sat down to eat and to drink and be merry. No Indian villagers, just released from the dominion of a man-eating tiger, could have felt jollier than did those good folks at the thoughts of thieving Tom’s demise.

“May the deil gang wi’ him,” was one of the toasts to Tom’s memory.

“And a’ the ill-weather,” was another.

“If there be,” said the fishwife, “an ill-place for the souls o’ cats, that black beast ’ll hae a hot neuk in’t.”

“Ay, but,” said the grocer,—a godly man and an elder of the Free Church,—“speak nae ill o’ the dead, Eppie, but pass the whuskey, and I’ll gie ye a bit sang.” He sung the death of Heather Jock, which was by no means inappropriate.

“And so the nicht drave on wi’ sangs and clatter,” and the fingers of old Peter’s eight-day clock were creeping slowly towards “the wee short hour ayont the twal,” when,—“Well, neighbours,” says Peter, the hypocrite, “we’re a’ glad the cat has gane we a’ his weight o’ crime on his sinfu’ shou’ders. Let us eat that last pound o’ steak, finish the bottle, and gang to bed.”

“There is many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip;” and scarcely had Peter done speaking, when the door opened, apparently of its own accord. The cold night-wind blew in with a ghostly sough, and the candles were extinguished. But lo! on the table, in their very midst, and dimly seen by the smouldering firelight, stood Tom himself, with back erect and gleaming eyes. Never was such kicking and screaming heard anywhere. The fishwife fainted, and the milkwife fainted, and the godly grocer and his wife fainted, and the butcher—who hadn’t a wife at all, fell down on top of the others, for company’s sake. But Peter and the three guilty neighbours stood in a corner—dumb. When order was at length restored, and the candles re-lit, the old shoemaker told his true version of the story, and was very properly forgiven. But where was Tom? Tom was gone, and so was the beef steak! And from that day to this, never again was Tom heard of in that sweet little village near bonnie Dundee.

That cat was a thief.